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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24422980">Paperclip</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingwrongwiththerain/pseuds/nothingwrongwiththerain'>nothingwrongwiththerain</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, But also teasing, Hard To Believe I Know, Hurt/Comfort, Jon people care about you, Missing Scene, Tim Stoker is that person, Triggers, and he deserved better, cause shared trauma y'all, let me have this, scratching/picking at skin, that whole worm thing was real fucked up, what if Tim and Jon talked</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:00:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,789</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24422980</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingwrongwiththerain/pseuds/nothingwrongwiththerain</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Weeks turned to a month, a month and a half, and Tim shed the last of his bandages. The sheen on pale circles marring his skin were by no means subtle but spoke to the turn of events in the distinct past tense. </i>
</p><p> </p><p><i>Jon had not lost his bandages. Healing required, quite simply, a restraint he had never possessed.</i><br/> <br/> Jon has a problem, one he does not want to talk about. The worms left marks in more ways than one, but maybe he doesn't have to deal with this on his own.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jonathan Sims &amp; Tim Stoker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>278</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Paperclip</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>imo having heaps of tiny scabs all up and over you is a fear addressed to me personally from The Flesh. Allow me to inflict said horror upon mr. tired man arhivist who cannot catch a break, until he does.   </p><p>tw: skin picking and descriptions of scabs/small injuries in detail ! take care y'all &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>His teeth ground against the thin metal of the paper clip. Jon slid it from one side to the other, attempting to force focus on the feeling of the folds pressing into his cheek and not the growing urge to scratch. His statements were done for the day, fifteen minutes ago he clicked the recorder off and downed his half mug of cold tea in a single unappealing gulp. </p><p>Rolling his tongue, he moved the paper clip to the other side of his mouth, again. His pen was hovering above a statement for tomorrow, periodically scratching notes over badly penned words. He was yet to stumble during a recording; the diligence of scanning unfamiliar penmanship was a point of pride for Jon. He would be damned if he had to rewind halfway because of some inventive spelling error. </p><p>Except he had not read a word in several minutes. The paperclip was the last distraction he grasped at as his fingers fluttered over his constantly rearranged bandages. The office, with its nonfunctional climate control, grew stuffy near the end of the day. Jon had been forced to roll up his shirt sleeves. Bare arms revealed a patchwork collection of plasters – several merely tape from the dusty dispenser on his desk, slapped over a leaking scab in hushed frustration. </p><p>The first few weeks had been... if not on typical track for healing, easily dismissed with Tim similarly wrapped. At the time Jon was restricted from the office anyways, save the small bursts he could sneak in. Martin was ardent on Jon taking time to "heal" and developed a keen ear for Jon's stutter stepping in the halls. Damn limp. </p><p>Weeks turned to a month, a month and a half, and Tim shed the last of his bandages. The sheen on pale circles marring his skin were by no means subtle but spoke to the turn of events in the distinct past tense. </p><p>Jon had not lost his bandages. Healing required, quite simply, a restraint he had never possessed. </p><p>Jon spun his pen, nearly sending it hurtling in a bid to distract his restless, wandering fingers. Since he was old enough to pick at scabs his grandmother had been forced to amass a formidable first aid cabinet. Half the time he wasn’t even aware, his idle default set to ‘find an imperfection and make it worse’. </p><p>Nobody listened when he said it was an accident. As if he wanted to be fighting with the flimsy backs of bandages or picking at itchy discolored patches left by the glue. He stopped asking for bandaids. Crossed his arms more often to keep a fingertip pressed tight, covering a tiny red leak. By the time one was half healed, another little scratch would have his unconscious attention, old forgotten in favor of a new irritant. </p><p>As such, it wasn’t a problem. Inconsequential. A strange, unpleasant little tick nobody wanted or needed to know about, and they hadn’t. Victimless crime. </p><p>Until this. </p><p>He was littered in rusty, inviting edges to pick at, ranging from ink drop to the size of a fat coin. Scattered in irregular patterns, dotted about his skin like drying rain puddles, waiting to be dug out by his blunt bitten fingernails the moment his focus slipped. </p><p>Jon dropped the pen. The cheap plastic skittered over layered papers, coming to a rest at the lip of the desk. He stared, chewing metal, hands hovering. Reaching for the renegade pen meant the bandages would stretch, pulling a new pen from the drawer would cause them to fold...</p><p>
  <i>Fuck sake.</i>
</p><p>Jon put his head in his hands with a huff. If he was this far gone the likelihood of accomplishing anything useful was abysmal. Under the pad of his pointer finger lurked the edge of a bandage, material rough. Courtesy of the worms that nearly cost him his eye – why hadn’t they? </p><p>During her initial hospitalization, Prentiss’ worms went for the attendant’s eyes and tongues – why was the attack on the Institute different? Did she need him to be able to see, to talk? Did it matter? He hadn’t lost his sight. The sensation of his glasses wire frames pressing across a bandage served as a reminder. A constant, shifting, itchy reminder. Jon bit down harder. The paperclip digging painfully into the inside of his cheek was the last measure of restraint stopping him from tearing at his face in frustration. </p><p>“Hey boss!”</p><p>Per usual, Tim’s physical presence was vocally preceded as he hip checked the door open. “I know, I know, said I was leaving and all but you got me thinking about this new case you have me on– do you have a minute?” </p><p>Jon snapped upright, hands slapping down hard on his desk – a new reflex to distancing his torn face from twitching fingers. As if the contrast of his notable bandage collage to Tim’s bare arms wasn’t enough blatant incrimination of his lacking impulse control. </p><p>The smack startled both of them. Tim recovered first, with a grin. “Didn’t catch you napping, did I?” </p><p>Jon would have protested, but remembered the paperclip with a millisecond to spare and clamped his jaw shut. </p><p>“Don’t worry, I won’t tell,” Tim teased, waving off the imagined crime. “I don’t think any of us sleep enough around here, you know?” </p><p>Jon was rapidly running out of terrible ideas concerning the office supply wedged in his back molars, potentially on its way to become a permeant fixture. He offered a noncommittal hum.</p><p>“Anyways,” Tim said, repositioning a stack of books to settle down on the opposing chair, “I couldn’t help but notice...” </p><p>Tim launched into what Jon would have readily admitted was a competent analysis of recent developments if he wasn’t perilously close to swallowing a paperclip in the name of decorum. However, the universe took pity. Jon was saved from having to overturn his entire desk when Tim elbowed a collection of police reports over. The paperclip was safely bunched in Jon’s fist when Tim popped back into view.  </p><p>“Think I should go for it?” </p><p>Jon scanned the material quickly. Based on the poorly drawn map and Tim’s well highlighted documents Jon hazarded Tim wasn’t overly concerned with the property damage his route seemed to suggest. It was nice of him to check in though. Made it easier to keep tabs on him.</p><p>“As long as you keep the Institutes name out of it I don’t see why not,” Jon conceded. “However, the police have been... less than cooperative lately. Please take the proper precautions.” </p><p>“Oh yeah, yeah, you know me. Mr. Prepared.” </p><p>“Call if you’re going to be later than noon,” Jon added dryly. “Organizing an unnecessary search party would be incredibly time consuming.”</p><p>Tim smirked, tapping the desk with a file. “Aww, you do care.” </p><p>“Within reason,” Jon said. “I would prefer to keep additional disappearance out this particular case file.” The case had taken up a few hours of his morning, Jon was faintly pleased Tim made this much progress in one afternoon. The newest police file was particularly compelling. Jon reached aimlessly for a bandage then idly corrected his motion the same way he had off and on for the last hour, raising his hand to his face. Tim’s plan was direct and early morning trespassing was less common – and when he became an expert on breaking and entering patterns Jon didn’t want to consider. </p><p>“Uh – Boss?”</p><p>Jon glanced up from his musing the exact moment <i>after</i> he bit down on the paperclip, metal edge stuck out at an obvious angle. Jon froze with his hand hovering uncertainly by his face. His brain provided an abundance of cheery static. Tim’s expression was cut with confusion and budding glee. </p><p>“You know we have snacks in the break room, right?”</p><p>Jon had the paperclip out of his mouth and in the trashcan faster than the human eye could follow. He already knew, gut deep, it was far too late. He was never going to hear the end of this. </p><p>“Is that why you kept making faces at me?” Tim was laughing, mischief settling rapidly in his delighted eyes. “Been munching on office supplies?”   </p><p>“Tim.” Heat prickled unpleasantly at Jon’s skin. He wasn’t chewing on paperclips because he wanted to, but he couldn’t exactly explain. </p><p>“Iron is important for a balanced diet and all, but you might not be getting the recommended dosage there.” </p><p>“Tim, please.” Jokes. Always the jokes, but this wasn’t an action Jon felt any control over. At least if they called him a bastard, he knew why. Most of the time. His initial embarrassment began twisting to deeper discomfort.</p><p>“Paperclips might just be the gateway here– do we need to stage an intervention? Start locking up the supply cabinet?” </p><p>Jon stood up, swaying sharply on his bad leg. He didn’t know where he was going. Hell, this was his office. “That’s –”</p><p>But what ‘that’ was Jon never settled on. With a remarkable resistance to reading the room, Tim started in again and Jon – Jon couldn’t focus.</p><p>“Oh FUCK OFF, TIM. I needed a distraction for <i>one moment</i>.” The entire afternoon of redirecting his incessant scratching had peeled back the last of Jon’s defenses and his outburst was loud. At midday, he would have heard from other departments. Fortunately, 5pm had come and gone during Tim’s presentation. The workday was over, Institute as empty as it could be.</p><p>“Whoa, whoa.” Tim put his hands up, eyebrows nearing his hairline.</p><p>“That–” Jon went to pinch at the bridge of his nose, clenched his hand to a fist instead. He couldn’t touch his face. “That was unprofessional. I apologize.”</p><p>“No, that was definitely on me,” Tim said. He waited a beat, apparently immune to Jon’s mute attempts to will him away. “Are you – is everything alright?” </p><p>His question caught Jon off guard. Martin was one to fuss, but Tim – well. Tim asked from time to time; Jon hadn’t expected any concern after shouting at him. Maybe for Tim to leave or respond sharply. Jon knew he deserved it. </p><p>“I’m fine.” Jon said, crossing his arms tightly. Tim’s eyes widened. Oops. Bad move. Without the imperfect lighting sitting behind his desk afforded him the unhealed collection of badly covered worm holes were thrown into stark relief. </p><p>“You don’t <i>look</i> fine.” </p><p>“Thank you for your concern.” Jon ground out, the words dry sand in his throat. There wasn’t anything else to do. Deflect, and get Tim the hell out of his office. That was the best and only outcome Jon could conjure and he clung to it. “I will see you tomorrow.”</p><p>The dismissal didn’t take. “Bites still bothering you, huh?” </p><p>Jon did not want to have this conversation. Not now, not ever, and not with Tim, who was living proof of how long healing should take if Jon was less of a disaster. “I need to finish this,” Jon said, gesturing pointedly at nothing. He retreated to sitting, hunching over his arms. “Keep me updated on your investigation.” </p><p>Jon grabbed the closest file and saw with a spike of dismay it was one Tim brought in. “Here.” Jon said, holding out the sheaf of papers. </p><p>Tim leaned forward to take the report and was treated to another good look at Jon’s arm. Spots of blood were dried poorly at the corners of a few wrinkled coverings, some overlapping. One had leaked through that morning. Another was uncovered and revealed damp flesh, stinging dully in the open air. </p><p>Front and center was a dark blotch near his wrist where Jon had stuck a strip of clear tape, edges grimy and peeling. It was a ragged mark that curved over the bone, red dried in a crusting smear on his dark skin. Where he had watched the point of a corkscrew turn deeper as Sasha twisted it into the meat of his thin arm, chasing a wriggling heat.</p><p>Jon dropped the file, yanking his hand back to his chest. His heart was lodging firmly in his throat. </p><p>“Jon...”   </p><p>Jon kept his gaze firmly on the splayed pages of the fallen file. “Goodnight Tim.”</p><p>Tim eventually stood, chair scraping. His hands traveled over the desk to gather his files, all pale scars and deft fingers. Jon had half convinced himself it was over, but Tim didn’t leave.</p><p>“It’s not just you, you know.” </p><p>No, he didn’t know. Jon knew he did what he shouldn’t. That he was meant to hide it. That he failed. That failure had consequences he couldn’t begin to guess at. </p><p>“I was in a shopping center and the fire alarm went off.” Tim said, rueful. Jon didn’t move a muscle. “Had to leave, even after they confirmed it was a false alarm. Couldn’t get it out of my head. Echoing, you know?” </p><p>Jon knew. </p><p>Tim continued in the same steady tone. “I was so sure that was the last thing I would ever hear. Those alarms. Spent the rest of the weekend trying not to think about it. Didn’t leave my house. </p><p>“And the morning after that rain storm last week–” Tim cut off with a shaky sigh. The office was quiet. </p><p>“That was... bad.” Jon agreed softly, risking eye contact for a glace at Tim. He needn’t have worried. Tim was staring in the direction of the trap door. Hard. </p><p>“Wasn’t even the–  worms,” He hit the word like a punch, like if he spat it out fast it couldn’t touch him, “all over the pavement. Was that damn–”</p><p>“Smell.” Jon finished. “Wet and... earthy.” It had been a bad morning.</p><p>“Must have looked a proper idiot walking to work with my sweater pulled up over my nose.” </p><p>His admittance startled a laugh out of Jon that he immediately regretted. He winced. “Sorry.”   </p><p>“No – it was funny.” Tim said, waving Jon off and gradually pulling his attention from the stretching rows of case files. “After.” </p><p>Jon shrugged, tugging at his sleeves. “Still.” </p><p>“Still.” Tim repeated, quieter, watching Jon roll his sleeves down. “Do they itch?”</p><p>“Um,” Jon’s brain stalled. He wasn’t sure the truth of the matter would satisfy – it never did, when it came to this – but Tim had been honest with him. </p><p>“No. They don’t. Not like that.” Jon reached for any combination of words that didn’t sound like an excuse. Which it was. “It’s a bad habit.”</p><p>Tim nodded and Jon deflated a little. As if ‘bad habit’ was sufficient reasoning to explain the ruin he inflicted on his skin. For weeks on weeks. </p><p>“When’s the last time you painted your nails?” </p><p>“Pardon?” Jon said, confused. </p><p>“Your nails,” Tim said. “You haven’t been painting them lately. When was the last time?”</p><p>“A... few months?” Jon said quizzically. Jon honestly hadn’t thought Tim noticed. Not that he expected people to, Jon just liked how it looked. He thought for a moment. “I loaned my yellow to Martin and–”</p><p>“Oh I knew it!” Tim said, sparking energy returning in a burst Jon was unprepared for. He nearly took a step back at the force of it. </p><p>“Knew what?” </p><p>“Martin’s been faffing with the bottle on his desk for ages. Keeps picking it up and bringing it back like he’s forgotten. Ha. Sasha owes me a tenner.” </p><p>“What does this have to do with...” Jon trailed off, pointedly not thinking about the idiots he worked with betting on their coworker’s personal lives. </p><p>“Might be a distraction.” Tim said plainly, like he wasn’t supplying the most obvious answer in the archive. “Just a thought!” Tim bounced on his heels a few times. “I’ll be off then boss. Don’t stay too late – you know how spoooooky it can get down here,” he said, pulling the words like taffy and heading for the door. </p><p>“Right.” Jon said, dazed. Tim was back to normal then. “Tim?” </p><p>Tim backpedaled into the room, one hand on the door frame. “Yeah boss?” </p><p>Jon regretted calling his attention. Nothing seemed appropriate. “Thank you.” Jon said finally, attempting to convey several variations at once. “Be careful tomorrow.” </p><p>“Of course!” Tim shot back, far too pleased with himself. </p><p>Jon left shortly after. Taking a short detour to the Boots near his apartment, he spent 10 minutes picking out a neon green polish and snagging a new box of bandages. Maybe he could do this. Or at least stop making it so much worse. </p><p>The next day Martin was first to compliment and Jon had to gulp scalding hot tea to hide his blush. Tim made no remark, save a small satisfied smile when they passed in the break room. He brushed past quickly, and Jon missed his chance to comment. </p><p>What Jon did not miss however was the muttered, “if I find out you’re the reason for the staple shortage I’m telling Sasha.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>as a notorious paperclip chewer this may or may not be inspired by life events (don't worry about it). </p><p>thanks for stopping by and reading my words on the screen!!! hurl a comment below if ur in the mood or track me down on tumblr to join me in my bi/ace tma hellscape under the same username. </p><p> </p><p>okay and one more thing I'm still torn between Jon having a drawer full of half empty nail polish OR buying one at a time extremely deliberately. the world may never know.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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